


fire on the walls

by bubbleteabunny



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Tiny bit of Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 12:02:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13810785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubbleteabunny/pseuds/bubbleteabunny
Summary: He’s David on the pedestal, carved from marble and timeless, made to be admired in perpetuity.





	fire on the walls

His arms are stretched over the back of the couch and he’s watching Netflix on his laptop. The light of the lamp casts a soft glow over his face and you’re hardly paying attention to what he’s got pulled up. Why watch that when you can watch him? You’re sitting up against the arm of the sofa, facing him, knees drawn up so you can brace your sketchbook against a steady surface. Your pencil is hovering over a page still blank, but it won’t be for long. The drawing comes to you easily, as you glance up at the man in front of you and return your eyes to the paper. This is not the first time you have drawn him. Far from the first, far from the last. And at this point there’s no need to look up to know what lines you must draw next, what points you must shade, because the image of him is burned into your brain. A perpetual muse. One to call your own.

While the next episode loads, it’s silent for a few seconds, and he can hear the glide of pencil over paper. Deliberate strokes, long and fluid. Purposeful. A new masterpiece for the evening. He’s told you before that the two of you should hang your works on the walls, like your own little museum. The intro sequence starts playing as Erik looks over at you and grins.

“What are you drawing?” He has a sneaking suspicion of what it could be.

You smile back but don’t say anything, and his own widens because he definitely does know. You crawl over to sit next to him, and you turn your sketchbook around so he can see. And the breath leaves his lungs like it does every time because you’re immortalizing him on these pages. You call them no big deal but he calls them magnum opuses, each and every one. He takes the sketchbook so he can look at the drawing more closely and you study his face as he does. Because it can’t be helped: he’s a work of art all on his own, and you’re filling up your sketchbooks with all the little parts of him that make him so special because you want to know how to make something like that. He’s  _David_ on the pedestal, carved from marble and timeless, made to be admired in perpetuity.

He tells you that you were born in the wrong century. He calls you Renaissance woman, and the blood which flows through your veins magic. It always makes you bashful when he says these things and he can never get enough of that. And every time it happens, he wants to get closer to you, to feel the heat of your skin against his lips. You sketchbook sits on the table next to his laptop, and the episode has been playing but it goes ignored as he guides you to lay down across the cushions, and he’s above you, murmuring that he can be an artist too, and you’re the blank page, the block of marble waiting for someone to set you free.

He glides along your curves with his hands and his mouth. And he whispers praises, says you’re the one carved by gods, kept in their company, and he’s ascending the steps to their home above the clouds, finds you in those high places to steal you away. Because he will give you more than they ever could, ever would. He’s mesmerized by the bliss washing over your face, the flush of your cheeks and furrow of your brow. He swallows your moans like they’re the one thing keeping him alive and he laces his fingers with yours above your head. You’re a goddess of your own, and he’s come to the temple to worship.

Life’s a blur of oil painted mornings and watercolored evenings. It’s perfect. Paint stains your overalls and your face and your hair and Erik doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything more beautiful. He watches you work at your easel one afternoon, and of course you can feel him staring, but there aren’t many chances to be incorrect when he always seems to be observing you. You smile lopsidedly and his chest tightens, and you ask him what’s up. He shrugs and smiles back, and tells you  _Nothing. Just remembering_. That’s it. He’s memorizing what it’s like here in this space, how whole he feels even though he has a love for you so intense it’s breaking his heart in two. Though he supposes that doesn’t matter too much when you’re the stitches bringing the halves together again.

The wrong crowd drifts down the river and Erik is standing on the edge, dipping in his toes and wondering where that current will lead. He says they make good money off the black market deals they do. But that doesn’t matter to you. You’re doing everything you can to convince him that it’s a bad idea, and not worth the trouble. He smiles softly at you but he can’t stay away. It’s the storm he wants to chase. And he kisses your forehead and tells you it’ll be okay. You don’t say it out loud, but you know it won’t be.

You end up being right. It takes up his mind, his focus, and you’re not quite sure you know him anymore. You try to, try to find your Erik on those nights you’re in bed and the lights are off and it’s only the lights of the city peeking in through the window that illuminates his face, so you can see his eyes. You’re above him this time, dictating the pace. And you’re basking in his groans and heavy breaths. He kisses you and you’re desperate to bring him back to you, before it might be too late. You want the river to take pity and carry him home. It doesn’t.

_Seen in here last night—a beautiful body._  You’re alone in the midst of messy bedsheets come morning. And you sit there, wondering where it all went downhill.

Sometimes you go to the museum on the other side of the city, in search of some sort of comfort you can no longer find in your own home, amongst your own art. Maybe you’ll find your inspiration there, because the fact is things are going to be different now, and you need to adjust. You stand in front of a painting of the nine Muses but you don’t feel any surge of creativity. You feel numb. And your heart aches for the tenth, because you know he’s out there, running away with your imagination.

You dream of him one evening. You’re at the river together and you’re sitting on a rock. He turns to you and tells you  _Come with me_ , and he holds out his hand. It’s instinct that drives you to reach out your hand, because you trust him, and your fingertips brush together. It’s the  _Creation of Adam_ in the middle of a make-believe forest. And it’s beautiful for a moment, but then you retract your hand. There could be no good things down the road he was headed. Erik’s crestfallen expression at your wordless rejection is so genuine that you think maybe this had really happened, and it wasn’t just in your head.

But you wake up in bed, alone, like usual these days. And it’s while you lay there, heart squeezing as you remember dream Erik’s quiet sigh and saddened frown, that you understand it’s time to move on.

Art doesn’t have the same spark but it’s good enough. At first, you tried to convince yourself that given some time, the beauty of art would recover its original wonder. But you know deep down that could never be the case. So you settle.  _Good enough_. Your soul learns to live with that.

A new exhibit opens at the museum. It’s early on a weekday when you stop by to see it, so it’s only you in here, footsteps echoing off the wooden floors. There’s faint interest as you walk past the paintings and the sculptures, and you read the little information placards beside each of them. You call it all beautiful but you don’t feel the pull in your chest, not like you used to. There used to be so much weight to that word. Now it’s feathers in the wind.

You’re standing in front of a painting only half-analyzing it. You stare at the textures and note the colors but you’re not very invested. You remain there anyway like maybe you’ll feel something eventually, and the footfalls of another occupant coming in are easily ignored. It would’ve been nice to have the place to yourself, but you can’t always get what you want.

The other person makes their rounds slowly, like you did, and their route brings them to the painting you’re observing. You hope they move on soon. But they don’t.

“Still a fan of coming here early, I see,” Erik comments with a familiar teasing lilt.

It’s a voice you never thought you’d hear again. You inhale silently, trying to maintain your composure. But the truth is you want to cry because it’s a voice you missed like no other. And you thought you had a handle on the whole idea of moving on, but it’s all gone to shit now that he’s here. Maybe it was art and he’s ruining it, but it’s not. It was never art. It was the ugliest thing you’d ever made but you made it to protect yourself. He’s tearing it down now, looking at you as if inquiring if you really want him to stop.

You glance up at him. He still looks the same, but you know he isn’t. You ask him what he’s doing here, and he says he was looking for you at the base of Olympus but you were nowhere to be found. So he went up there again, to see you on a throne, the name of Aphrodite branded into your skin. And he knew as he watched you there that he couldn’t stay away forever.

The words soften your resolution as they’ve always been able to do, and your hungry soul is clawing for them. But you go against it as you shake your head, and Erik’s brows furrow in confusion.  _You’re not the one you used to be_. It’s a gently spoken statement, like you’re trying not to disturb the air.

Erik sighs and reaches up a hand to hold your face, and he’s reveling in the feel of your soft skin. His thumb strokes the curve of the high point of your cheek. He knows you’re not made of bone, but marble, breathed into and given life. He assures you he’s still your muse. Your Adonis. Your  _Vitruvian Man_. And he’s here to stay now—that’s a promise.

You’re doing your best not to give in because you know he’s still floating down that river, and he has no plans of emerging. But as you look up at him, the world seems more vibrant again, and there are embers in your chest coming to life. Your veins and your mind seem to creak, stiff from going unused for so long. Now, they tell you, they’re ready to get to work again. To take your visions and make them real. And it’s exhilarating, a sensation difficult to push away.

Maybe you were foolish for trying to move on. You need him and he needs you. You’re the artist looking for your inspiration, around street corners and at the top of the highest buildings. And he’s the muse wandering aimlessly, searching for a home, only to find you again, because the fact is you handle him best.

You’re about to say okay and let him in, but the affirmation never makes its way out into the open, never makes it past your lips. It doesn’t matter though because Erik can see it in your gaze. He smiles, his hand repositioning so he can hold your chin with thumb and index, to ensure your head is angled towards him. And he whispers  _Can I kiss you like this, baby_  as he leans in close, and you breathe out a yes. Your soul hums. Satisfied once more.

 


End file.
